Every night

 Every night, I hope you’ll find your way to me again.

Sometimes you do. Sometimes you don’t.
But on the nights when you visit, everything feels right.

You’re always the same—tail wagging, eyes bright, full of that joy that made every dark day feel lighter. You don’t say anything, but you don’t need to. I already know what your silence means: “I’m okay. I’m still here.”

Sometimes we walk together through soft meadows that seem to glow from within. Sometimes you curl up beside me the way you used to, breathing slow and steady, anchoring me to peace.

And every time I try to hold onto you, you fade—slowly, gently, like morning light dissolving the night. I wake up reaching for you, half-smiling through the ache.

I’ve come to realize these dreams aren’t just imagination. They’re visits—tiny miracles that bridge two worlds. Love has found a way to travel between Heaven and here.

So when I miss you too much to breathe, I close my eyes and whisper your name.
And somewhere beyond stars and sleep,
you hear me. You come running.

You still visit me in dreams—
and that’s how I know love is eternal.